


But a Dream

by paintedrecs



Category: Gargoyles (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fox/Xanatos, M/M, Mutual Pining, Owen POV, POV Alternating, Post: The Mirror, Timestamp, Xanatos POV, demiromantic Owen, polyamorous Xanatos, see end notes for details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedrecs/pseuds/paintedrecs
Summary: “Mr. Burnett’s always with you, Mr. Xanatos,” the security guard on the ground floor said, looking confused and mildly terrified at having to speak directly with him, rather than via their usual Owen buffer.Xanatos thanked him, as politely as he could manage with his veins now turning to ice, and stalked back to the elevators to stab at the buttons. He tried Owen’s phone again as the floor numbers ticked by: no answer. Three rings, then a voicemail he’d never heard in the four years he’d had Owen by his side.Where the hellwashe?
Relationships: Puck | Owen Burnett/David Xanatos
Comments: 15
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a timestamp fic that directly follows the events of "The Mirror," where Demona tries to force Puck to do her bidding. She is very bad at it; he winds up changing all the humans in the city to gargoyles, much to her absolute horror, then changes Goliath's clan to humans, then ultimately puts everything back to normal. At the end of the episode, after expending quite a lot of extremely powerful magic creating chaos, he says, "I'm going to need a very long nap."
> 
> As usual, [mad-madam-m](https://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com/) and I were talking about this show, and she said, "although seriously is Owen gonna sleep for a full day after all this?"
> 
> I thought: aw, Xanatos finding a sleeping Owen still in Puck form. I then set out to write what I thought would be ~500 words of a very cute scene that I'd love to see as art but can only create as fic. It turned into nearly 5k of angst and pining instead.
> 
> Although I'm not posting this as part of my [Then Fate O’errules](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640824) series, it fits within it; I think you can probably read this separately, but it'll make more sense if you have the full context. Additional information in the end notes.
> 
> Title is, of course, from A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Xanatos woke feeling strange, as though his muscles had been stretched too tight for too long. He sat up in bed, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress with greater effort than usual, wincing at the ache in his shoulders and knees, the stiff inflexibility of his joints.

He hadn’t done anything particularly strenuous the night before, that he could remember—no enthusiastic bed partners, no extended training sessions in the dojo, no adrenaline-fueled aerial battles with Goliath. So why did he feel like he’d been tossed off the Eyrie Building’s roof and then run over by six different types of construction vehicles?

The stiffness eased a bit as his muscles warmed in the shower; Xanatos twisted the knob until the water pounding against his shoulders was as stingingly hot as he could take.

There was an obvious answer staring him in the face. He tilted his head back into the unforgiving spray, scraping rough fingers along his scalp and through the tangles that’d formed in his hair overnight.

He’d turned 40 this year. It wasn’t old, not by a long shot, but if he was already beginning to feel his age in creaking joints and limbs that didn’t move like they used to...

 _Fuck_ , he thought, grabbing the bar of soap and scrubbing at his skin until his misgivings swirled down the drain alongside the lightly scented foam.

There were other, far more important things to focus on.

Fox was home now, and Owen had a lead on an artifact with a promising name: the Cauldron of Life. Their last few plans may have gone awry, but Xanatos felt confident that this one would work. Even Owen, typically the first to arch a skeptical eyebrow and warn against overinflated hopes, had sounded optimistic. While they hadn’t gotten their hands on the cauldron just yet, it was looking increasingly possible that they’d finally discovered a true path to the immortality Xanatos had spent years chasing.

In fact, he thought, turning the showerhead off and wrapping a towel around his hips as he wrung water out of his hair, Owen was supposed to be providing an update on the cauldron this morning. He was looking forward to that—the update, that was, not seeing Owen for an intimate breakfast at their little rooftop table, a habit he’d fallen into while Fox was away, then had kept after her return, much to her fond amusement.

 _If I’d known this was all it’d take for you to finally make a move, I would’ve gotten arrested years ago, David_ , she’d said with a throaty laugh the morning he’d visited the prison to tell her that his relationship with Owen had progressed to...something. Something he’d been loath to name, lest it disappear.

He dressed quickly, checking the time twice as he buckled his watch around his wrist. 9:30; he’d slept in. It was unusual, but not entirely unexpected after a night like...

Xanatos stopped while putting on his shoes, puzzled by the blockade his memories kept running up against. He couldn’t remember _anything_ from the previous night. He and Owen had been working throughout the afternoon and into the early evening, as they always did. Owen had left at one point to...he racked his brain, frustrated that he was coming up empty.

It didn’t matter, he decided. Last night was in the past, and Xanatos never wasted time dwelling on things he couldn’t change.

Fox had already left for the day, making the most of her recovered freedom—the damp towel and still-warm hair dryer said he’d just missed her—but Owen would be waiting for him.

Likely with some restrained irritation over Xanatos’s tardiness, although he’d never explicitly say as much. It would take a little effort, Xanatos thought with a pleasant rush of anticipation, to soothe him back into his usual dry, quiet sense of humor and easy camaraderie. 

He was, he finally admitted to himself, looking forward to that.

But when he reached the top of the castle, his steps quickening until he was fairly bounding up the stone stairs, he found...nothing. No Owen, no breakfast, no sign that anyone had been there in some time.

Xanatos pressed his palm against the surface of the table, as though he’d be able to feel lingering evidence of the stainless steel carafe Owen would’ve impatiently swept away, angry at his absence. It was heated a little by the sun—that was all. Owen wasn’t here, and likely hadn’t been since the prior morning.

It was...strange, but Xanatos wasn’t worried.

He told himself that as he retraced his steps, as he checked his office, then Owen’s, then every location he could think of. Owen wasn’t anywhere, and no one he asked had seen him.

“Mr. Burnett’s always with you, Mr. Xanatos,” the security guard on the ground floor said, looking confused and mildly terrified at having to speak directly with him, rather than via their usual Owen buffer.

Xanatos thanked him, as politely as he could manage with his veins now turning to ice, and stalked back to the elevators to stab at the buttons. He tried Owen’s phone again as the floor numbers ticked by: no answer. Three rings, then a voicemail he’d never heard in the four years he’d had Owen by his side.

Where the hell _was_ he?

Owen’s bedroom was, somehow, the last place Xanatos thought to look.

It took him longer than it should have to actually locate it; as he rapped impatient knuckles against the door, waiting for an answer, he realized it was the first time he’d intruded on Owen’s personal space like this. There’d never been a need; although Owen was technically human, with all the bodily limitations that came with that form, Xanatos had never been entirely certain that he actually _slept_.

He’d asked Owen once, indulging the curiosity that he usually tried to withhold out of respect for their contract’s intricate rules.

Owen had simply quirked up the corner of his mouth, as close to an actual smile as Xanatos could pull from him most days. “Of course I sleep, Mr. Xanatos,” he’d said, in that deep, oddly soothing voice of his. “After I finish my work. If you have any concerns that sleep deprivation may be adversely impacting my productivity...”

It was both an adroit dodge and a clear message for Xanatos to not press this line of questioning.

Puck was, and always had been, entirely off-limits.

That conversation had taken place long before they’d begun sleeping _together_ —although the truth was, sleep still had very little to do with it.

Xanatos knocked again, louder this time, in tune with the rapid thud of his heartbeat. It was getting more difficult to shake the sense that something was horribly wrong.

With anyone else—Sevarius, Fox, any employees or business associates he might try and fail to get in touch with—Xanatos would simply assume that they were busy or had misplaced their phone. He’d often gone weeks without hearing from Fox, knowing she’d always show up eventually, usually with a tan and a new crop of stories she’d only share the most interesting pieces of. But this was Owen. Their relationship didn’t work that way; it never had, and it never would, not in the eternity that’d soon be stretching out before them if the cauldron held the power it was rumored to.

Owen couldn’t break the contract that tied him to Xanatos’s side. He wouldn’t _want_ to leave Xanatos or their home, even if he had that option. Unless...

Xanatos stopped knocking and pressed his forehead against the door, taking long breaths to hold back the chill he could feel licking up his spine. He was overreacting. It wasn’t like him. The logical part of his brain had simply been thrown off by the odd start to his morning and the fact that he’d neither eaten nor had a sufficient dose of caffeine.

He took in one more lungful of air, focusing on its movement through his body—the slow inflation of his chest, his shoulders dropping with the steady exhalation—then opened the door.

Xanatos had never spent much time thinking about what Owen’s room would be like. It was smaller than his, of course, and less lavishly decorated. Owen must have picked out his own furniture with an eye towards Burnett-like efficiency; there was a desk set next to a large but well-organized bookcase, a bed half the size of Xanatos’s, a plain wooden nightstand, a couple of severely practical lamps, and a dark suit hanging from a door that probably led to a closet filled with a dozen exactly like it.

There were only two items that betrayed more of Owen’s actual personality: a soft-looking set of cushions scattered along the wide windowsill, transforming it into an inviting, sunny reading nook—and a single poster that’d been neatly framed on an otherwise empty wall.

Xanatos swallowed around a sudden, strange lump in his throat and crossed the room to touch the glass, leaving a smudge of his fingerprints on the cool surface.

IRELAND INVITES YOU, the poster announced in bold, dark lettering over a lurid orange splash of paint that covered the bottom third of the image. The rest was pretty enough—an artist’s depiction of a tower, lake, and mountains, with “Land of Legend” emblazoned in the sky above them, in looping script that’d made Xanatos laugh when he’d found it in a local gift shop. It was a reprint of a 1950s travel poster and looked very little like the landscape he and Owen had journeyed through.

Xanatos had bought it for Owen anyway, as a memento of their expedition, and had assumed he’d tossed it the moment they’d gotten home.

Four years with Owen, Xanatos mused, using the side of his thumb to smooth away the evidence of his presence, but only managing to smear the marks further. Four years, and was this the only thing he’d ever given him?

There was a quiet noise behind him—a rustle of fabric, a murmur in an unfamiliar voice—that brought Xanatos abruptly back to the present, and to his current quest. Finding Owen. Who wasn’t anywhere in the room, including, Xanatos had thought after a cursory glance, in the bed.

He moved closer, peering more carefully at what he’d dismissed as a brightly-colored pile of blankets: red, purple, and gold, too richly dyed to fit the rest of the room’s muted decor, something he would’ve realized earlier if his judgment had been less clouded by a galling tangle of emotions.

Owen wasn’t in his bed. But Puck was.

The fabric shifted again; Puck curled into a tighter ball, another wordless sound of protest escaping him as he rubbed his nose in sleepy irritation against the hand he had tucked over it, which clearly wasn’t doing enough to block out the light and noise disturbing his slumber. Some part of him was aware of Xanatos’s presence, but not threatened enough to pull him from the sleep he seemed deeply committed to maintaining.

Owen was here, then, and safe. Now that Xanatos had located him, he should leave him in peace.

He didn’t make a conscious choice; his legs began folding of their own volition, until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching out to tuck a lock of shimmering white hair behind one sharply pointed ear, his eyes greedily tracing over features that had been blurred in his memory by distance and Puck’s dragonfly-darting movements.

Xanatos knew every line of Owen’s face, each subtle shift of the boundless emotions that it seemed so difficult for others to pick out of his expressions. Xanatos had never understood that, although it always deepened the amusement in Owen’s eyes and around his mouth when others overlooked or misread him. Perhaps it was intentional—part of the game Puck had set in motion years ago. Maybe that was why Xanatos had been invited to play alongside him; he’d always been able to see beyond the purely physical, to the vibrant, mischievous, wildly intelligent soul underneath.

Owen was Puck, and Puck was Owen, and Xanatos had never considered them separate beings. The man who’d come to work at Xanatos Enterprises was an extraordinarily powerful trickster who’d utterly failed at hiding both his sense of humor and the beauty that couldn’t be masked simply by taking on human features. Xanatos was certain he’d recognize him no matter the face he wore. And he was wise enough to never offend a member of the fae by telling him that.

Still, it was different to watch him like this—so much smaller than his usual form, with slim hips and narrow shoulders, his soft hair cascading down his back and framing his face, lending more obvious delicacy to his features. He gave off an air of vulnerability that might lead fools to underestimate him.

Xanatos touched his silky, impossibly white hair again, barely conscious of the impulse that was holding him in Owen’s room, in the bed to which he’d never been invited. Owen let out a quiet breath and turned his face into the curve of Xanatos’s palm, as if seeking its warmth. He was beautiful, Xanatos thought once more—nothing new, but a realization that still managed to startle him each time.

He traced the pad of his thumb over the inviting swell of Owen’s lower lip, until Owen’s mouth parted, his still-closed eyelashes fluttering. Xanatos let his thumb slip inside, inhaling sharply at the wet heat, the slight touch of Owen’s tongue against his skin, the scrape of teeth that he still hadn’t quite learned how to control.

It’d been weeks, Xanatos realized, reluctantly withdrawing. Three, nearly four, since Owen had come to him at night. Since Owen had given any indication at all that he wanted this—wanted _him_.

Maybe he was biding his time, waiting until the flush of excitement surrounding Fox’s return had passed, until life settled into something more like normalcy—as close to it, anyway, as their extraordinary lives could ever manage. A thousand year old fae, even one as chaotic and curious as Puck, understood patience.

Or perhaps he wasn’t aware that Fox, despite having officially moved in, still didn’t always share Xanatos’s room or his bed. That seemed unlikely; Owen knew, better than anyone, the comings and goings of everyone and everything in their building.

 _I should ask him to come back to me_ , Xanatos thought, strangely reluctant and unable to piece together why.

Owen, once Xanatos’s hands were no longer on him, rolled to his back, then flung his arms above his head and stretched, catlike, in his sleep. Even like this, with his long hair streaming beyond the tips of his fingers and his slender legs—still clad in supple red boots—extending to sharply pointed toes, he barely seemed to take up any room in the bed. A bed that could easily fit another person, if he wanted it to.

 _I’m afraid he’d say no_.

The answer came to Xanatos unbidden, and he shut his eyes against it, breathing through the sudden clench in his chest.

He’d never seen Owen asleep before—not like this, in the form Xanatos was never permitted access to, and not in his taller, broader-shouldered, rigorously explored human shape. No matter what they’d done, no matter how thoroughly Xanatos had tried to exhaust him, to wring him dry and leave him loose-limbed and relaxed in their bed, Owen had always left.

When Owen had his choice, when he wasn’t tethered to Xanatos and a human body by a decision that hadn’t been fully his, he never wanted to stay.

Xanatos stood, his limbs free of the morning’s strange aches, but weighed down now by something heavier and much more difficult to dislodge. He pressed through it anyway, shaking off the momentary weakness. He might be getting older; it didn’t mean he had to become a sentimental fool.

It didn’t take long to locate a pencil and a pad of paper on Owen’s desk, or to leave a scribbled note on the nightstand, tucked under the phone where he’d already left a dozen, far more terse, messages.

_Owen — I’ve canceled today’s agenda; nothing was urgent. You’ve clearly had a busy night and could do with a day off. Come find me when you’re awake._


	2. Chapter 2

Magic was, in truth, not as difficult for Puck as he’d told Demona. For someone who’d lived as long as she had, she knew remarkably little about the fae. For instance: how to effectively bind him, without leaving him more than sufficient flexibility to toy with her plans; how crucial precise wording was when making unreasonable demands; how _not_ to piss him off with ingratitude; and whether it was strictly necessary to move their operations to a rooftop with a rather lovely view.

Still, it had been years since he’d used that much magic within such a compressed time frame. It was akin, he supposed, to a human hangover; after the equivalent of a night of relentless partying and more alcohol than could be considered wise, he truly _had_ been in need of a rather long nap.

And it’d been a much nicer one than he’d managed in any recent memory. He stretched languidly, slowly coming back to himself, blinking open sticky-lashed eyes and pushing a hand through hair that was...longer and more luxuriant than he was used to.

He’d been far more tired than he’d realized, then, if he’d collapsed into his bed still wearing his Puck form, rather than returning to Owen as soon as he was home and safe from any more of those accursed gargoyles.

It felt strange to be back in this skin; he let himself stay with it for a couple minutes longer, indulging quiet thoughts of days gone by.

Those thoughts turned, as they always did, to Xanatos. Who wouldn’t have missed him yesterday—because while no one else had bothered to think through a single detail of the night’s events, he’d made certain that all the humans’ memories had been wiped clear of their time spent as gargoyles. A city-wide panic would be amusing but messy. Too much chaos for the time being, unfortunately, and too disruptive of his and Xanatos’s other plans.

It took him a few moments to extricate himself from a blanket that had been tightly wrapped around him— _tucked_ around him, he would've said, if such a thing had ever been done to him in his very long life. He pushed the softly-woven fabric down to his hips, then kicked his legs free of it, puzzled by its presence here; that wasn’t something he’d managed in his exhaustion, was it?

No matter. It was time to begin the day. Long _past_ time, judging from the lack of sunlight in his room; Xanatos might not remember his hours spent with wings and claws and stone-tough skin that Puck would’ve _dearly_ loved to have witnessed for himself, but he would certainly have noticed Owen’s absence today.

Best to get started with his excuses, then.

Rolling his shoulders in preparation, he closed his eyes and let the transformation ripple back over him. He felt well-rested, content to be returning to his normal life now that he’d had his fun. There was an odd sense of happiness lingering, too, that he couldn’t quite place; he touched his lips—Owen’s now—as though they held a memory that was flitting just outside of his reach.

Fragments of a dream from weeks past, he realized, his mood abruptly crashing.

Emotions were more volatile for the fae, and far closer to the surface when he wasn’t shielding them within a human frame. It’d been a mistake to think of Xanatos while he was still Puck, to let that longing spill over into the body that knew how it felt to have Xanatos’s weight anchoring him, that could still taste the stroke of Xanatos's tongue against his, could hear the _Owen_ gasped into his ear and the answering thud of a heart that he sometimes worried could physically break.

Humans were fragile. And he’d let Xanatos shatter him.

The grief overtook him—a towering wave that flung him against a hidden reef, the very essence of his soul crying out for something he could no longer have.

A few seconds; it was all he would allow himself before he forced the raw vulnerability back to where it was meant to stay—behind ironbound walls where he could ignore its existence. He straightened his shoulders, and his tie, and reached for the phone he must’ve been tuning out for much of the day. Time to be Owen again. Owen Burnett had always known the role he was meant to play in the Xanatos household.

His fingers brushed against paper instead; he picked up the note, puzzled by its presence in a room that had never been touched by anyone but him—that was enfolded in magically enforced barriers that wouldn’t allow _entrance_ to anyone else without his express permission—and adjusted his glasses on his nose, getting used to human eyes again.

The note was short, to the point, and devastating.

Xanatos had been here. Xanatos had _seen_ him like this, with all of his barriers down, both literal and figurative. He’d entered Owen’s space and left, making no attempt to wake him, or to offer the slightest reminder of anything that they’d once been.

This time, it took longer than a few seconds for Owen to suppress the torrent of emotions he’d never had cause to name—or the opportunity to learn how to control.

***

“Owen,” Xanatos said, looking up from the computer that he was slowly, painstakingly, typing information into, using only his two pointer fingers. Owen resisted the urge to take the keyboard from him, or to show any visible reaction when Xanatos added, in a studiously casual tone, “Looking more like yourself now, I see.”

“My apologies, Mr. Xanatos,” Owen replied, more stiffly than the situation called for.

Xanatos wasn’t cruel—never intentionally, the mark of a far weaker man than Owen would’ve ever let himself serve—but this was an area so tender, so unused to intrusion, that the slightest brush of fingers against it felt like a stroke of red-hot iron.

“I’m curious, Owen,” Xanatos said, pushing back in his chair to steeple his hands thoughtfully under his chin, “if your night’s activities have anything to do with why I can’t remember mine.”

“Sir,” Owen gritted out, unable to voice a more thorough protest.

Xanatos sighed, with a disappointed lift of his eyebrows that was far more effective than he could’ve guessed; it tugged at Owen’s chest, tempting him to betray every code he’d sworn to follow. But Xanatos didn’t press further. He never did.

“I know; you can’t tell me. But tell me this, at least—is there anything I should be wary of now? Any changes to our plans?”

“There was an incident,” Owen said. “It’s been handled.”

That conversation concluded—it was the most they’d ever speak of this—he sat down in the chair across from Xanatos and pushed a folder towards him, tapping a finger against it. “The latest news on the Cauldron of Life. We’re getting close; if all goes as expected, I estimate we’ll be able to acquire it within the next two weeks."

“Very good, Owen,” Xanatos said, sounding genuinely pleased. “And what’s this?”

“The information you requested about the Eye of Odin. There’s little of it in human records; I’m afraid it was the best I could find, sir.”

Xanatos pursed his lips slightly at the word _human_ , reading between the lines. While Puck might have been quite familiar with Odin and his array of powers, Owen had never met him and thus could contribute no further information.

“Drink up,” Xanatos said as he began scanning the papers. “You still look tired.”

Owen _was_ moving a bit more slowly than usual, still caught somewhere between human and fae, although he prickled with resentment at the fact that Xanatos had both noticed and commented on it. He bit down his instinctive response and turned instead to the sideboard Xanatos had indicated—which held an electric warming plate, a single demitasse cup, and a copper cezve that Owen had purchased on their last trip to Turkey.

The coffee inside was almost perfectly brewed—thick, fragrant, and sweet, exactly as Owen liked it. His throat hurt when he swallowed his first mouthful, a physical response that had nothing to do with the heat or the slight kick of spice from the cardamom.

“It’s my third attempt,” Xanatos said, flipping another page. “You took longer than I was expecting. I hope it’s acceptable.”

“I appreciate the consideration, Mr. Xanatos,” Owen said, wishing he could either crawl back into bed, or release his feelings by wreaking further havoc on the city. Turning all the humans into gargoyles for a single night was the very _least_ he could do. He had other, far more creative, ideas that could do wonders to lighten his mood.

Xanatos had no intention of letting him do either. “This is fascinating, Owen,” he said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Here I’d been simply thinking the Eye’s value was its _price_. And you’re telling me now that wearing it can grant power and insight?”

“That’s what the records say, sir,” Owen replied.

“Hm,” Xanatos said, giving him a thoughtful look; Owen could see him processing the series of questions he wanted to ask but knew he couldn’t. “We should test it, but on whom?” he mused at last, correctly deducing that he shouldn’t chance it on himself.

Owen poured himself another cup of coffee and waited.

Xanatos tapped his fingers together in time with his thoughts. “None of the gargoyles,” he decided. “This is a gift, Owen, one they’d never appreciate enough. And I certainly can’t give a power-boost to anyone who’d consider me an _enemy_. What about Fox?”

“What about her, sir?”

Xanatos pinned him with a narrow-eyed expression, as close to exasperated as he ever got with Owen. “Is there a reason, Owen, that I shouldn’t give the Eye to Fox?”

Owen was weak enough to hesitate, not certain which response to give. The truth was, neither Owen nor Puck knew the full answer to that question. There were dangers inherent in any experiment such as this—Xanatos knew that well enough. What those dangers might be, Owen couldn’t say exactly, particularly with Fox’s fae blood— _royal_ blood—as part of the equation. Would her heritage heighten the Eye’s powers, or temper them into something controllable, something closer to what Xanatos was expecting?

“None that I’m aware of, Mr. Xanatos,” Owen said finally. “I’ve given you all the information I know.”

“A gift, then,” Xanatos repeated, his voice taking on a distant tone. “But I can’t just hand it over like this; she’d suspect something.”

“You don’t plan to tell her?” Owen asked, keeping his own inflection flat and unconcerned, although he was puzzled by the choice. It’d been less than four weeks since Fox had been released from the prison sentence that’d resulted from Xanatos’s last experiment. Owen had seen—and _heard_ —their enthusiastic reunion. He’d been witness to far more of it than he had ever wished. Xanatos putting someone he loved in harm’s way again, and so swiftly, was the last thing Owen would’ve expected.

Xanatos was following the same train of thought, with a different conclusion. “After the year she’s had, I think it’d be best to keep it to ourselves for a while. We’ll test it for a few days; see how it goes. And if there’s any true danger, you’ll tell me, and we’ll put a stop to it.”

“Of course, sir,” Owen said.

“If only I were in the habit of handing out absurdly expensive gifts to people I care for,” Xanatos murmured, shooting Owen a look that, for once, he couldn’t fully read.

Owen didn’t try; it had been an extraordinarily exhausting day, and the coffee, while something he was still thoroughly enjoying, was doing very little to help. “Perhaps for a special occasion?” he suggested.

Fox’s birthday was an obvious choice, although Xanatos would likely be too impatient for that; an anniversary would work equally well, or a particularly elaborate night out on the town. There were any number of excuses for a couple that’d been together for that long, who’d met years before Owen had joined their household.

“We should get engaged,” Xanatos said.

“Sir?” Owen said, startled into losing his composure, his hand shaking enough that his cup splashed across the papers that Xanatos had shoved back towards him. The liquid seeped into the document that detailed the cauldron’s location, highlighting the steps Owen would have to take to bring it—and its life-giving properties—to Xanatos.

Fortunately, Xanatos had moved away from his desk; he was standing now with his back to Owen, a broad-shouldered shadow in the dimly-lit room. He was looking out at the city, which left Owen free to look at him.

“The Eye of Odin as an engagement present,” Xanatos said. “Fitting, don’t you think? It’d suit people like us far better than a ring.”

 _People like you_ , Owen thought, his chest twisting with a sharp, violent pang that settled into an ache he could never voice, in this form or any other.

**Author's Note:**

> As with [my other fics that follow this timeline](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640824), Xanatos and Fox have an open relationship. Xanatos is polyamorous - in love with both Fox and Owen - and Fox is aware and fully supportive of Xanatos's relationship with Owen.
> 
> Since this timestamp fic takes place before the resolution, there's still a lot of bad communication going on; Owen believes that with Fox back in the picture, his physical/sexual relationship with Xanatos is at an end. Xanatos, distracted by having Fox back but never intending to stop anything with Owen, is now starting to realize that something is wrong, and that Owen might be regretting the two months that they spent having sex. The longer you go without talking about something, the harder it gets to bring it up...
> 
> This fic takes place at the end of Chapter 2 of [All Is Mended](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636003/chapters/54098671) (Owen's POV) and right before the last section of Chapter 3 in [Until the Break of Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22824670/chapters/54549334) (Xanatos's POV). So while we're technically ending on a sad note here, they do sort things out and have a very happy life together - this is just a portion of their story.


End file.
